


Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City

by matrixrefugee



Series: Cecie Martin [2]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matrixrefugee/pseuds/matrixrefugee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two straight-laced Catholic girls get stranded in Rouge City...and what happens to them when they fall in with a certain green-eyed lover-Mecha</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Default Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> +J.M.J.+

+J.M.J.+

Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City

By "Matrix Refugee"

 **Author's Note:**

This is neither a smut piece (except maybe to a prude!), nor anti-Catholic gack; if it's anti-anything, it's probably anti-prudishness. I happen to be a devout Catholic virgin myself. The two girls who appear in the story are loosely based on some friends of mine who will remain nameless, but whose prudishness drove me slightly nuts. Dedicated to Laurie E. Smith, who is undoubtedly the William Gibson of the "A.I." fanfiction; to everyone who read and reviewed my previous "A.I." outing the "Zenon Eyes" triptych, thanks for all the compliments and encouragement!; to "fom4life", for sending me somewhat into orbit with his Gigolo Joe impersonations; and to my unidentified prudish friends, if you ever read this, which you possibly won't, thanks (really!) for the inspiration. Also, in memory of Walker Percy (1916—1990), self-proclaimed "bad Catholic" and great author; I wish I could write about bawdy stuff as well as you did, Doc.

 **Disclaimer:**

I do not own "A.I., Artificial Intelligence", its characters, settings, concepts or other indicia, which are the property of the late, great Stanley Kubrick, of DreamWorks SKG, Steven Spielberg, Warner Brothers, et al.

Monday Night

"I thought you had the brakes checked before we left Albany!" Bernadette Connelly cried to her cousin Philomena. Their cruiser had nearly skidded off the highway into an embankment, thanks to the rain pounded on the roof. Bad time for the brakes to fail. Philomena steered it and let off on the accelerator until they coasted to a stop in the breakdown lane. She breathed a prayer of relief before putting the cruiser in park and breathing a sigh of relief.

"I thought for sure we were going to crash," Bernadette groused. "And I need to go to confession."

"Didn't you confess before we left Albany this morning?" Philomena asked.

"I did, but I started thinking impure thoughts since then."

"Were you thinking about…there?"

Bernadette dodged. "Why did Cecie have to move to a place like _that_?"

"It was her decision; let's hope the climate there didn't corrupt her."

Philomena flicked on the hazard blinkers and then pressed the switch for the dashboard speakerphone. She pressed the speed dial number for Triple A and waited while the line rang.

"Triple A Roadside Assistance, can I help you?"

"Yes, we need to be towed because our brakes failed. We're driving a forest green Saturn cruiser, license plate number PRY HRD."

"Can I have your location?"

"We're on Route 101 West, just above Exit 69, for Rouge City." She felt her face burn as she named their destination.

Fifteen minutes later, a tow truck picked them up and the girls rode the rest of the way to the city. At least the truck driver was a normal human.

"Ain't you girls a little young to be goin' to Rouge?" he asked, clearly trying to keep an insinuating tone out of his voice.

"We're just passing through," Philomena replied coolly, not looking at him even though she sat next to him.

"We're on our way to St. Louis," Bernadette added. Rather, they were going to what was left of St. Louis, now that the rising waters had turned the Mississippi into a seaway. Philomena elbowed her for letting out too much information; this stranger might know how to track them.

At length the tow truck started up the span of cantilever bridge spanning the Delaware, which seemed to be sucked into a vast gate built in the form of a woman's head, mouth agape in a silent rictus of delight, all draped in pink and blue neon. Without any signals toward each other, Philomena and Bernadette both began to pray they wouldn't be swallowed up by the City.

Later, the two girls sat in the waiting room of a service station cum convenience store, sipping water they hoped didn't have any weird additives.

At length, a fresh-faced, sturdy built young mechanic—thankfully also a human—came to them. Philomena let herself acknowledge the young man's auburn hair and gray eyes, but little else.

"I've got some bad news and some good news," he announced. "The bad news is the discs are almost destroyed, but the good news is, they can be easily replaced."

"How long will it take?" Philomena asked.

"We'll have to order the parts, and since your cruiser is an older model, it could take, oh, maybe four days to get them in. Are you in a hurry?"

"No," Philomena replied.

"Good, I know of a decent hotel where—"

"Thanks, but we'll be staying with a friend."

"Okay, can we have a number where we can reach you when the cruiser's ready?"

"No, we'll come by in five days," Philomena said. She pulled Bernadette off her seat and led her out.

"Well, I'm sorry," the young man said, baffled.

The girls used the convenience store's pay vidphone, which for some strange reason was located near several shelves of bottled ginseng in various forms. Philomena decided this was the least offensive stuff she had to look at while she waited for Cecie to pick up.

No picture appeared on screen when she finally picked up, but a line of print appeared: "Video blocked".

"Hello?" Cecie's husky alto replied.

"Hello, Cecie? It's Phila and Bernie. We're on our way over."

"So, you made it into the city in one piece. How's the trip going so far?"

"Not bad, but the brakes broke on the cruiser and we had to have it towed. It's gonna take four days to get it fixed, so could you put up with us for a few days more?"

"Of course. What's mine is yours."

"We'll be over in a little while."

"See you then."

"God bless you."

"God bless you even more."

Phila hung up the phone.

Once they left the service station, Phila consulted the printout of directions Cecie had mailed them a few days before. She led Bernie to the vast escalators that connected the lower level of the city with the upper level open to the sky.

Bernie had never seen so much neon lighting in her life. There must have been a thousand miles of tubing draping the strangely shaped buildings.

"Don't look up," Phila ordered, taking her head and pushing it down onto her chest before taking her by her free hand as she carried her half-grav luggage in the other. Bernie barely heard her over the pulsing music that blared from every open doorway and animated billboard around them, but the gesture was unquestionable.

They threaded their way through the crowds that thronged the plazas and boulevards. Bernie followed Phila blindly, not daring to look up from the polymer paving at their feet. She felt the crowd press in and knew when a possible threat approached: Phila pulled her closer to herself until they seemed conjoined at the hip.

"Merciful heavens! There's actually a church here in all this mess!" Phila exclaimed, pausing. Bernie looked up at a storefront that had clearly been converted into a chapel. Over the door poised a Michelangelo Madonna over a cross in blue neon, Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart over the doors.

They went in. Inside was simple to the point of being antiseptic: plain white pews ranked before a simple white stone altar, surmounted with a silver tabernacle, a gilt cross on its door. On the wall above hung a crucifix strangely modeled after Grunewald's contorted Crucifixion.

They knelt in a pew at the back to say a few words of thanksgiving to the All Mighty. Bernie prayed the last two lines of the Our Father with a passion that she feared might be inappropriate. She added this to the list of sins she had to confess, including anything she may have incurred walking along the streets. She hoped they could find a priest at this hour, but at this late hour it was out of the question, but in the morning she might get her chance to come back.

At length, Phila got up and led her out of the chapel. They consulted the Mass schedule posted on a bulletin board in the entryway: what blessings! There were confessions before the two morning Masses, as well as the later Mass in the afternoon. Phila jotted this down on the printout before they headed out.

Once they got out onto the street, almost before Bernie could avert her eyes, she noticed a tall, dark figure standing nearby, leaning casually against a lamppost. She dropped her gaze, hopefully before he spotted them, but not soon enough. He stepped away from his post, spread hands on hips, the tails of his long black leather jacket flipped back, and started to approach them.

"Bernie, do you see that man?" Phila hissed, pulling Bernie to herself.

"Yeah."

Phila started walking faster, following the map on the printout and dragging Bernie along till she had to run to keep up.

Somewhere nearby a tinny song from the far-distant 1940s started to play, absurdly innocent compared to the raucous blaring that scourged their ears. If they could get past it, maybe they'd be safe, Phila thought.

Phila scanned the street signs with slitted eyes, trying to filter out the suggestive displays in the storefronts. Added to this, she had to keep them ahead of their pursuer and elbow her way through the crowd. And worst of all, their path led through occasional patches of blackness: who knew what further perils lurked there, or if this shadow behind them might not have an accomplice he herded them towards.

She hazarded a glance back. He had lost ground. For that matter, he wasn't pursuing them as relentlessly as she had anticipated. He walked with long graceful strides alternated with…dancing. Gene Kelly meet Fred Astaire in the old 2-D films dancing!

He was gaining on them. He didn't look like a threat: he carried himself far too jauntily. But it might be a disarming tactic. And where on earth was that music coming from?

She spotted the sign for Avenue J up ahead. In a quick burst of speed, Phila dragged Bernie up the street and around the corner. She scanned the buildings with eyes crossed, looking for the Hotel Graceley. At length, they came up before a five-story molded concrete structure with "Hotel Graceley" in tasteful Art Deco white neon over the front.

She focused and hauled Bernie through the revolving front doors and up to the front desk.

"Could you…call Room 503…and tell Cecilia Martin…that Phila and Bernie are on their way up?" she asked the clerk between puffs.

"Yes, Miss," the clerk replied, reaching for the phone.

At least the foyer here looked sanitary, even classic, but Phila took little notice. She watched the door for anything that looked like their pursuer.

"She's expecting you both; you can go up now," the clerk said, hanging up the phone.

"Thanks," Phila said. She grabbed Bernie's hand and ran for the graceful curved staircase that swept up to the mezzanine level and then up to the fifth floor.

Suite 503 gleamed in brass on a door to their left. With her last burst of energy, Phila flung herself and Bernie at the door and banged on it.

"Wait up, I have to key the door; it's on smart," Cecie's voice replied, behind the door. Something buzzed and the door swung in.

A tall lean girl with ear length brown hair and antique metal-rimmed glasses, wearing a short-sleeved white jersey and khaki pants—thankfully loose-cut; why did she have to wear them anyway?—opened the door and swung it aside for them.

"You girls been running?" Cecie asked.

Phila limped into the small front room and collapsed on the couch that stood in the middle of the floor. Bernie half sprawled on the floor before pulling herself up onto the cushion beside her. "There was a man following us!" Phila cried.

"A man following you?" Cecie repeated, closing the door and keying it. "What did he look like?"

"I don't know; I didn't get a good look at him."

"He was tall, kinda dark, I couldn't tell; it's dark out there," Bernie said.

Phila nailed Bernie to the couch with a glare. "You looked at him?"

"I didn't look right at him."

Cecie rolled her eyes. "Tall and dark; well, that narrows it down to about ten thousand guys. What was he wearing?"

"Black, maybe, I think he had something on a chain around his neck," Bernie said.

"I guess you do need to go to confession," Phila said.

"Okay, where did you first meet him?" Cecie asked.

"It was in front of that little storefront chapel, Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart," Phila said.

"And you met him on the way out?"

"Yes."

"Aw, that was probably just Joe."

"Joe? Who's Joe?" Phila cried, trying not to squeak.

"Don't worry, he's absolutely harmless."

"If he's so harmless, why was he following us?" Phila demanded.

"You're new in town, and he just wanted to introduce himself."

"It couldn't hurt just to have said hello," Bernie ventured

Phila glared at her. "In this town? Are you crazy?"

"Maybe we hurt his feelings."

Cecie smiled astutely. "If he has any," she murmured.

"What's that?" Phila asked.

"Well, he isn't exactly a man, you see."

Bernie looked horrified. "Then what is he?"

"He's Mecha."

"You mean he's one of… _those_?" Phila said.

"He's been used that way, but there's a good deal more to him than 'that'."

To be continued…


	2. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next morning, the three girls went to Mass at the chapel. Of course it was the watered-down 1967 Mass, already something of a relic itself. Phila wished it could have been the Tridentine Mass from before the Second Vatican Council, but what else could she expect in this sort of city? At least the Mass was offered decently, except the priest's vestments were somewhat garish: the colors were too fluorescent and the material a little too shiny. Because they arrived slightly late, Bernie hadn't got a chance to go to confession, so she refrained from receiving the Eucharist; better safe than sorry.

Tuesday

Next morning, the three girls went to Mass at the chapel. Of course it was the watered-down 1967 Mass, already something of a relic itself. Phila wished it could have been the Tridentine Mass from before the Second Vatican Council, but what else could she expect in this sort of city? At least the Mass was offered decently, except the priest's vestments were somewhat garish: the colors were too fluorescent and the material a little too shiny. Because they arrived slightly late, Bernie hadn't got a chance to go to confession, so she refrained from receiving the Eucharist; better safe than sorry.

After Mass, Cecie brought them back to the hotel suite, where she cooked breakfast for them in her closet-sized kitchen.

"We won't be beholding to you," Phila promised.

"We'll do the dishes and any extra laundry and shopping you need to do," Bernie piped up.

Cecie grinned away from the eggs she scrambled. "Don't give me any ideas or I might really put you through your paces. One thing some of us writers hate doing is the mundane."

"Can I ask a question?" Bernie asked.

"Fire away," Cecie said.

"You sure this hotel isn't a prostitute house?"

"Bernieeee!" Phila hissed.

Cecie clearly tried to keep her face from twisting into a bemused smirk. "I wouldn't use that phrase: it makes you sound naïve. Say 'bordello', or even 'house of ill repute' if you can't get yourself to say anything else. _They_ wouldn't take notice, except the uppity ones, but the other half of the species would look at you cock-eyed. No, it isn't, but there's a lot of stuff that goes on here. Best just to look the other way."

Bernie studied the contents of her cereal bowl for a long minute and looked up. "Whatever made you choose to live in a place like this?"

"You're really pushing it, Bernadette Connelly."

Cecie shrugged and emptied the skillet into two plates. "I was waiting for one of you to ask that. I guess the short answer is: for the same reason that the Vatican is built in what used to be the red light district of ancient Rome."

Phila splatted out a mouthful of orange juice. " ** _What?_** "

"It's true. The real morality isn't really found among the pious saints; it's really found out in the trenches and the holes in the ground. Sure, I've seen lots of sinners here, but I've met quite a few decent folk and even some saints."

"Are you counting this Joe among them?" Phila asked, mopping the tabletop.

"You really know this…guy that well?" added Bernie.

"I don't know him in the biblical sense, if you'll excuse the pun. But I count him as one of my closest friends. He helped me learn to navigate the terrain when I first got here. We have this agreement: he tells me the latest news on the streets, I answer his queries about human nature, and neither one of us tries to excite the other too much."

"But isn't that leading yourself into one of the near occasions of sin?" Bernie asked.

"I know my limits; he's programmed to respect them." She set one of the plates of eggs in front of Phila. "But enough about this dump: how're things back in Westhillston?"

Phila told Cecie about the most recent weddings and funerals and births, who had moved away and who had moved into the town they called home, where Cecie had grown up. Bernie kept eyeing the pitcher of orange juice on the table.

"You made the juice from concentrate, right?" Bernie asked.

"Yes, why?" Cecie replied.

Bernie warily eyed first the pitcher, then her glass. "There's no…stuff in the water to make you lustful?"

Cecie laughed. "That has got to be the most notorious urban legend about this town. Half the human population doesn't need anything to make them any hotter, otherwise they'd spontaneously combust. And the other half are the ordinary folk like myself who just happen to live here, though most of them live in the lower deck, where it isn't half as hypey as up here topside."

"So why don't you live down there too?" Phila asked.

Cecie made a wry face. "For starters, the sun doesn't filter down there much; I don't know how anyone can stand living down there. Besides, I wouldn't get half as many moral quandaries to write about than I do living up here."

"I would think the climate up here would rot your morals in no time at all," Phila said.

Cecie looked at them both over the top of her glasses with narrowed eyes. "If that happens, were your morals that solid to start with?"

"What on earth do you mean?" Phila asked.

"Centuries ago there was a craft called blacksmithing; it was how people shaped metal by hand. They heated a piece of metal in a fire until it was red hot, then they'd beat it into the shape they needed, with a hammer. The harder you pounded the metal, the stronger it got. I'm just a scrap of metal the All Mighty is beating into shape using Rouge City as a hammer."

They couldn't argue her metaphor.

After breakfast, after Phila and Bernie had washed the dishes, Cecie lead them out for a grand tour of the lower deck: the B&N bookstore, the e-post office, the massive Wal-Meg in the heart of it all, the Public Library crouched modestly amidst all the garish lighting, the 2-D film theatre she frequented, the combination laundromat and seafood joint she frequented called Fishious Cycle.

"They sometimes do that: knock out a wall between two storefronts and make one bigger storefront with two different businesses. Easier on the rent," she explained. "That's another reason I live topside: rents are better because everything's cheaper."

"Why would that be?" Bernie asked, confused.

"Simple reason: sixty-four percent of the intransient population topside doesn't need anything besides a new titanium battery every ten to fifteen years and a few minor repairs and upgrades now and then."

There were still some places Phila would rather not walk by, but they weren't so numerous as they were "topside". It wasn't really much worse than anything you'd see in New Boston (formerly called "Worcester"), except for…those.

"It's not the worst place to live, really," Cecie explained as they rode the escalator back. "I read in a write-up somewhere online that Rouge was found to be the one city where a woman is the least likely to get assaulted."

"Really? How could that be?" Phila asked, incredulous.

"It's quite simple: we've got way too much competition. Granted, most assaults have more to do with power than sex, but most guys who come here are interested in something that won't file rape charges. When you think about it, we should be pitying the Mechas and what their builders programmed them for." She looked around. "It's really a pitiful place more than a horrid place, built specific, just like them."

The two outsiders didn't dare follow her gaze, which would have taken in the animated 2-D billboards on the sides of the escalator shaft. But Bernie let herself look at Cecie. In her black leather trench coat (a small notebook and a pocket datascriber sticking out of the pockets), black fedora and mirrorshades over black Dockers tucked into ankle-high black boots, her cousin's college friend looked like she'd been built specific for this life she'd chosen in this strange setting. Bernie saw herself and Phila reflected in the chrome plating on the sides of the escalator: pale, stumpy figures in washed-out pastel blouses and flower-print jumpers that hung on them like shapeless sacks. She tried not to envy Cecie's more stylish looks; that would be vanity. She decided Cecie didn't dress that immodestly. But she sure looked like she fit in better. Bernie tried to steel her soul; she had to live up to the standards Phila's father had raised them in.

Cecie led them back to the hotel, where she treated them to lunch in the dining room.

"So, what exactly do you do all day normally?" Phila asked, over their soup and salad.

"Well, you see, writing is a process and a discipline," Cecie said. "Early mornings are the best time for me to get my walk in, so I go out around seven, when the crowds have thinned and things have calmed down for a respite. The nighthawks have gone back to their hotel rooms, and the day-trippers haven't got up yet. Go to Mass, come home, have breakfast. It's usually 8:30 by the time I get down to the heavy work of writing till about 13:00. I break for lunch then, check my mail, read the news, or get it from my informer as the case may be. And then I'm back to work around 14:30, 15:00, revising yesterdays work until 18:30, and then I knock off for the evening, go out for a walk, watch the herd out there, maybe go to a 2-D. Sometimes the herd is more interesting than the 2-Ds; they're the only 3-D worth watching sometimes."

"Is that how you met what's his name?" Bernie asked.

"Actually I met him pretty much the same way you did. I was walking out of the chapel one night a few weeks after I'd relocated here when I suddenly realized someone was walking behind me. I turned around and there he was, smiling at me with those irresistible green eyes of his. I think he asked me if I was new in town and did I need someone to see me safely home. He was so charming about it, I couldn't say no; I didn't find out what he was until we were standing under the white lights out front, and that's when I realized what exactly he was, before I sent him on his way."

"You didn't let him go any further, I hope," Phila said.

"Not literally, not figuratively," Cecie said.

After lunch, Phila and Bernie offered to go back to the lower level to pick up a few much-needed groceries. "I think we can find our way around," Phila said. Under her breath she added to Bernie, "Just keep your eyes to yourself until we get to the lower level."

Once her guests had gone, Cecie picked up her datascriber to get some writing done. But her train of thought had left without her, so set the pad aside and reached for her cellphone. His processors would be scurrying, "wondering" why her summons for him were so delayed. She hit the speed dial and pressed a certain number.

When the answering service picked up, she said simply "Cecie Martin, Hotel Graceley, Suite 503."

Fifteen minutes later, someone rapped on the door three times, the knocks precise and neatly spaced.

She keyed the door and swung it open to him.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" she said, stepping back, letting a tall, slender figure clad in silver and black enter.

"I've counted more seconds than usual since our last encounter; what prevented you from summoning me?"

She closed the door, then gave him her hand and let him raise it to his lips. "More than the usual distractions: I've got a couple friends staying with me for a few days.

"So, you got anything for me besides the usual 'in-out, in-out'?"

"Alas, not much of interest to you; last night was a slow night. But one incident occurred perhaps worthy of your notice."

"Which was?" She took up her datascriber and sat down on the windowseat. He followed her to the window and leaned one shoulder into the window enclosure, hands in pockets, looking down at her.

"An Orga man tried to pose as a Mecha, but he was quickly found out. His imperfections betrayed his nature."

"Trying to cut in on your business, eh?" Cecie said, jotting it down. "Anything else?"

"As I have said, there is little to tell of that is worth your bother retelling. But perhaps I could recount the incident involving the unfriendly girls in the shapeless dresses."

Cecie's ears pricked up. "Tell me about them."

"It is soon told out. I merely approached them to introduce myself."

"What did they look like?" she asked astutely.

The Mecha fell silent with recall. "One, the taller of the two, seemed not much older than you, though she looked younger, perhaps because she was shorter. The other, the prettier of the pair, was even shorter. And, oh yes, they both wore dresses cut so loose you could barely see that they had bodies underneath."

"They're those friends of mine who came up to visit for a few days. The tall one's Philomena, and the shorter, prettier one is Bernadette. If you see them again, try another approach."

"That may tax even my versatile capabilities, since, I'm afraid, your friends do not make themselves very friendly."

"I know what you're processing, as if your head was made of glass instead of titanium." In a pale mockery of his voice, she added, 'They may be your friends, but they are no friends of mine.'

He put his head on one side. "Would I say such ungenial words?" he asked with a note of innocence. "But why then do they dislike me? I have done nothing to harm them, and yet they behave as if I have. Are they any different from any other women in Rouge?"

"I'm afraid they're different, a LOT different. And they dislike you for the same reason that most women want you: for what you do."

His dark face took on a puzzled look; the space between his brows furrowed for a moment.

"It's got nothing to do with what you are: they'd act the same way toward any man, even an Orga if he acted the way you did," she added, hoping to clarify the details. His logic processors were really built for one purpose, though he was programmed to display an unusual volubility. He remained silent so long, she had turned back to her datascriber when suddenly he knelt before her and put his hand on her wrist, stopping it.

"Why should they dislike me? What reason do they have when they barely know me? Am I so disagreeable to them? If they would treat even men of their own kind in the same manner, what then?"

She had to phrase it in a way he'd understand. "The problem is they're afraid of the kind of happiness a man's company can give them, even innocently."

"Why should they fear this happiness when they were given the means and the wherewithal to enjoy?"

"Their father taught them to be afraid."

"To fear pleasure?"

"I'm afraid so. It's not because they know they wouldn't like you, it's because they're afraid they would like you. They're afraid to feel pleasure."

His face went utterly blank for a moment. "Is this what you Orga call a headache?"

"God forbid you should ever feel _that_ , you green-eyed beauty!" she said, patting his shoulder. He smiled and his eyes resumed their default look of gently smoldering seduction. He took her hand in his and kissed it tenderly before holding it to his soft cheek.

Cecie glanced out the window. "You'd better be off: here come the girls who are afraid to like you; better take the back entrance."

"Must I depart so soon?" He said this with an almost sulkily sultry reluctance. He released her hand and rose. "We would not want them to grow too frightened of me." With that he swaggered to the door, paused at it, then smiled and winked at her over his shoulder before he opened it and went out.

A couple minutes later, Phila and Bernie bonked on the door. Cecie saved her jottings, set aside her pad and let them in.

To be continued…


	3. Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the way back from Mass next morning, Bernie let herself glance around at the crowds surreptitiously, just to see if she could get a glimpse of the mysterious Joe whom Cecie had spoken about. She kept averting her eyes in case she saw any immodestly dressed persons—of either species—and there were an awful lot of those.

Wednesday

On the way back from Mass next morning, Bernie let herself glance around at the crowds surreptitiously, just to see if she could get a glimpse of the mysterious Joe whom Cecie had spoken about. She kept averting her eyes in case she saw any immodestly dressed persons—of either species—and there were an awful lot of those.

In her bated search, she somehow got separated from Phila and Cecie. She scanned the crowds looking for her cousin and their friend, but she saw nobody in the press and she was too small to look over everyone's heads.

She came upon a raised walkway that overlooked the Plaza. She elbowed her way toward it and up the stairs that let to the vantage point it afforded.

As she walked along the overpass, looking down, she made the mistake of looking down and leaning far out over the handrail to scan the crowd below. Some drugged-out human bumped into her hard. She overbalanced.

She free fell. The crowd below parted with general outcries. The pavement rushed up to meet her.

But so did something else, or was it someone else? Someone or something held out its arms to her as she dropped earthward.

She dropped heavily into a strong but gentle embrace.

"Lucky for you that you met me," said a young man's voice, very close to her ear. She opened her eyes.

She looked up into a pair of green eyes set in a face too beautiful to be credible. She wondered at first if she looked into the face of an angel that had caught her lest she dash against the polymer.

But they looked at her with a fire her foster-father had taught her to shun.

"Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!" she cried and wriggled free of her savior's embrace. She ran, leaving him behind, kneeling on the pavement, staring after her with a mild look of confusion.

She spotted Phila in the crowd and ran up to her. Phila grabbed her by the arms.

"Why did you get lost? I could have lost you forever in this hellhole!" Phila cried, shaking her.

Cecie came up and held Phila by the arm, stopping her. "Lay off, she just had a nasty fall and a bad fright. For God's sake, you're treating her like a child!"

"What do you mean? What happened?" Phila demanded. She looked from Cecie to Bernie.

"I saw it all happen: Bernie fell off the walkway above; someone below caught her before she hit the pavement."

"You could have gotten yourself killed!" Phila cried.

"Or at least bruised up. The pavement's polymer, but that's not to say you'd bounce off it, even if it is only half as hard as concrete."

After the excitement, Phil decided it was best if they stayed put for the rest of the day. Cecie excused herself after breakfast and went out to run some alleged errands.

A light rain had started to fall; Cecie searched the doorways and porticos of the buildings surrounding Main Plaza. She finally spotted him behind a fiberglass Doric pillar supporting the marquee of the "Isola de Capri" club.

"That was you who caught Bernadette when she fell," Cecie said, approaching him.

Joe looked up; he had his jacket off and had rolled the sleeve of his iridescent silver shirt to his shoulder. The seam at his elbow was open as he made a few minor self-repairs to the miniscule pulleys and fibers within.

"I anticipated that you might wish to hear my side of the incident of the falling damsel in distress. And the ungracious damsel is also one of your skittish friends?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry she didn't thank you. I guess I should take up the slack."

"If this fear you talk of keeps her from gratitude, she would do best to release her grasp upon it."

"I totally agree. It's this fear that keeps them from feeling almost everything else. They've been trained to fear anything with…" she almost said the outdated "anything with a y chromosome". "Anything male-shaped," she concluded.

"They have a father, do they not?"

"Yes, but he's not the best father. Not that he's ever hurt them. He just chose to try to keep them from knowing the pain of disappointment in love, so he raised them to avoid anything that _looks_ like a threat to their happiness or their innocence."

"Why would someone do that to their child?"

She shook her head. "Your logic is as good as mine."

The Mecha's wide-spaced brows pinched as he attempted to process the data. Not finding a satisfactory conclusion, he relaxed his visage and turned his attention to something he understood. He straightened his arm. The flesh stirred and closed on itself. He pulled down his sleeve and refastened the cuff.

"Orga women I shall never fully understand. But that is half of what makes them so attractive." His default expression returned as he slung on his jacket.

"Most Orga men would agree with you, and many Orga women would say the same about the other half of the equation."

A woman emerged from the club. As she passed by, she winked surreptitiously at Joe. He winked back and stepped out after her in pursuit of computing the equation in his own way. Cecie shook her head with a different sort of smile and headed home.

"Can you keep a secret, Cecie?" Bernie asked later that afternoon, when Phila had gone to do their laundry.

"I can try if you tell me," Cecie replied.

"Don't let Phila know this," Bernie said, looking around "But I've read all the stories you've published on the 'Net."

"Your secret's safe with me. Don't tell me: she'd say I'd corrupted your little mind." She said the last in mock devious drawl.

"Why exactly do you write those sorts of stories?"

"I write them because they're closer to the universal themes of literature, which ultimately comes a _lot_ closer to the truth than these antiseptic little edifications the whey-blood excuses for moral writers try to pass off these days."

"So you're trying to say you deliberately write about…what not to do? Is that what it takes?"

"In the line I've chosen it does. It's a lot more gratifying to the adult reader to spend an hour or five with the kind of story where a morally shaky person has to make a decision using strengths he didn't know he had, or where a morally strong person discovers the cracks in his armor that he was unaware of until it's too late."

"But why do you often have the bad guys win in the end?"

"They only seem to win, or they think they've won. Virtue may be its own reward, but it usually doesn't ensure you have a nice cozy outcome. It's much more real that way."

"It didn't really seem that real to me."

"Maybe because you haven't really lived in that sort of world until now."

"Phila's dad didn't want either of us to come to harm, especially me, after my parents died in that car wreck."

"But still, no one ever had an adventure in a safe haven. You gotta pass through the darkness first."

An idea crossed Bernie's mind. "Maybe I'd better go help Phila bring home the laundry."

"Don't talk to any strangers now," Cecie said in a facetious deadpan as Bernie got her jacket and went out.

 _And if she runs into any Mecha, just let it be Joe_ , she added to the All Mighty after the younger girl had left.

Bernie roughly knew the route from the Graceley to Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart, but from there on she had no idea which way to turn.

"Have you lost you way?" asked a suave voice with a British accent. It seemed to come from beside her.

She looked up. The dark young fellow of the first night stood there just within arm's reach, head on one side, hands on hips.

"Did you just talk to me?" Bernie asked.

"Yes, I did. I merely wanted to know if you needed a guide."

She glanced around. "I suppose I do. I'm just going to the lower level to meet up with my cousin. We only got here the night before last night."

"Then lucky for you that your path crossed mine so that I might show you the right path. You are new to Rouge City?"

"Yes, Uh, we were just passing through, my cousin Philomena and I." Realizing her lack of manners, she held out her hand to him. "I'm Bernadette. And you are?"

"They call me Gigolo Joe, but you, Bernadette, may call me just Joe." He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips, bowing over it. Before she could drive the thought from her mind, she wondered if…a real man's lips would feel as soft on her skin. An electric charge raced up her arm and down her spine. She felt her face flush up to the roots of her hair.

She meant only to glance up at his face, just to get a good look at it, but as soon as her eyes met his, she could not pull away.

Those eyes.

She tried to tell herself they were only the housings over…whatever Mechas "saw" with, but they were too beautiful for her to think of them like that. She'd never before seen a man's eyes so brilliant and so gentle, of such a curious shade of green: not a bright green, nor tainted with the murky gray or hazel that marred most green eyes. Most human green eyes, that is.

He released her hand and glanced toward the plaza. "Mustn't keep you from your destination." He proffered her his arm with the kind of graciousness she'd seen only in 2-D movies form the distant 1940s. She hesitated, but took it. He felt so natural, she wondered if this was how it felt.

As they walked, she tried to match her strides to his, but she soon found that he matched his stride to hers.

"So you're the famous Joe that Cecie told us about," she said, not knowing quite what to say.

"I am. And that must make you the damsel in distress who took the nasty spill earlier this morning."

"Oh, yeah, I hope I didn't hurt you…uh…"

"Better that I should be damaged a little from saving a falling maiden from injury than for any other reason."

"In that case, I'm sorry I ran off like that."

"You have done me no harm. The chance to act as your guide is all the reward I need." His voice sounded so genuine, she honestly believed for a moment that he meant exactly what he said.

But at length they reached the rotunda that housed the escalator landing. She let go of his arm.

"But would you not rather have me accompany you further? Cecie has told me much about your cousin Philomena, and I would very much like to meet her."

Bernie glanced down the escalator. "Oh, well, uh, no, I can find my way from here."

"If you wish, perhaps some other time I could show you around the City?"

"Thanks, but no. We won't be staying long. I really have to be going." She walked away from him quickly, too quickly and stepped onto a down escalator.

She had to put distance between her and him; she glanced back to make sure he wasn't following her. She had started to feel things she knew she shouldn't, things her foster-father simply would not approve of. What startled her almost to tears was how pleasant it all felt. Besides, what would Phila say if she knew she'd actually spoken to this…thing?

She found her way to the laundromat, where Phila was already loading the wet clothes into a drier.

"How did you get down here?" Phila demanded.

"Oh, I had good directions," Bernie replied, innocently.

"Cecie, what's most you ever…I mean, have you ever met a man and…" Bernie sputtered after they had got back to the hotel room and Phila was out of earshot.

Cecie was filling out a credit slip, but she paused. "You mean how far have I gone with a man?"

Bernie's face went pink. "I guess that's what I mean."

Cecie looked toward the kitchen, where Phila was cooking supper. "I gotta bring this down to the manager's office; my rent is due. Why don't you come with me, we can talk on the way."

"Uh, sure."

Once they were safely in the hallway and walking down the stairs, Cecie laughed tersely. "Thank God I'm old-fashioned enough to still use paper credit slips instead of e-banking, or you'd never get a chance to talk about this subject." Bernie only smiled, too embarrassed to disagree.

After Cecie had paid the rent, they lingered on the mezzanine. "Okay, to start with: how far have I gone?" Cecie began. "I kissed one guy in college, but he thought it meant he could have more, so I gave him something _else_ to think about."

"Like what?"

"I slapped him in the face and kneed him in the groin. Phila misunderstood the incident, so she wouldn't speak to me for a week, until a third party who'd been there finally explained to her what exactly happened. After that, I decided to keep myself on a short leash. But the thing is, unless you put that kind of promise in the hands of the All Mighty, you can end up putting your foot right where you swore you wouldn't."

"So you let someone else kiss you?"

Cecie glanced below, her eyes tracking something or someone passing by down there, out of Bernie's line of sight. "It's a little more complicated than that. This happened this past New Year's Eve; I was out, sort of hangin' around with Joe—"

"How do you 'sort of' hang around with some…thing like that?"

"You sort of hang around with some _one_ like that if you're hanging around his usual spot, watching the crowd and making up stories from the faces passing by while he's out keeping the customers satisfied, and the two of you are chatting each other up betweentimes. Midnight came and I had no one to kiss me for good luck, so I turned to the first compliant person closest to me, albeit inorganic."

"You mean you _kissed_ him?" Bernie's jaw dropped in shock.

"I doubt I'd ever do it again, and I definitely wouldn't go any further. First, because he's just too good at what he does, and second, because of the repercussions that followed the New Year's kiss."

"Why, what happened?"

"Oh, nothing really that bad, except some troublemaker in the crowd, probably my friend Vautrin though I never found out if it was him, had a digital camera, and since I'm notoriously known as the local virgin, the scamp thought he'd get funny and post on the 'Net a picture of 'Virgin Cecie' chewing face with Gigolo Joe. Try living that one down! I actually avoided Joe for a month after that, but after a while, he got cute and started giving me these sad-puppy looks every time I walked by him. I tried to act as if I have less of a heart than he does, but like I said, he's just too good at what he does.

"So is there something you wanted to tell me?"

Bernie just blushed.

To be continued…


	4. Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thursday morning the three girls got to the chapel early. Bernie almost didn't go to confession; what if the priest was some sort of awful liberal type? What if he told her it wasn't a sin to…?

Thursday

Thursday morning the three girls got to the chapel early. Bernie almost didn't go to confession; what if the priest was some sort of awful liberal type? What if he told her it wasn't a sin to…?

She had to go, she had to confess, however bad it was and whatever the outcome. She lifted the green baize curtain and went into the confessional.

She knelt down and crossed herself. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; my last confession was…Monday…"

"But today is only Thursday; you're not obliged to go to confession every day," the priest behind the screen said gently in a calm young voice.

"In this town you have to."

"Not unless you've learned how to handle it. But go on."

She confessed to being short-tempered with Phila, to telling a so-called white lie in a fit of nerves, "And, Father…I…uh…I've started to feel…I'm beginning to have…" She gulped.

"Spit it out, it might choke you," the priest said, humorously. "Nothing can shock me; I've been in this town too long."

"." There, she'd said it.

"Is it male or female?"

"Male, Father."

"And how old are you?"

"Twenty-one, Father."

"You're quite young. Have you ever felt attraction to or been attracted to a young man before?"

"N-no, Father, n-not like this."

"It's nothing grave in and of itself, but what you do with these feelings could be right or wrong. But I can tell you wouldn't act on these feelings to take advantage of them, or else you wouldn't be here now. I can tell you're trying to do your best. Don't let these feelings bother you, because that's all they are. But if they come back, don't fight them hard: just set them aside gently."

He gave her a simple penance: an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be. Bernie inwardly decided to supplement this with a decade of the rosary. He absolved her and dismissed her gently.

"Go now in the peace of Christ. God bless you and don't fall down."

"Thank you so much, Father; God bless you too."

She prayed her penance and went out to the street.

Phila had gone already, most likely going to check about the car, or she'd simply gone back to the Graceley. Cecie stood on the pavement, her back to the door, talking with a tall figure in black. Bernie stepped up behind her and started to clear her throat, but the dark figure shifted its position and looked over Cecie's shoulder.

No, not those green eyes! Not that smile!

Bernie turned around and went back into the chapel, back to the sacristy. The confessional was already occupied, but as soon as the penitent had finished, she went in again.

"Bless me, Father, I've done it again…"

He saw the priest's shadow get up. The curtain lifted aside.

He stood before her, a small young man in his early thirties, built slender with an ascetically thin, pale face and pallid blue eyes. "I'm sorry, but we can't allow scruples in the confessional."

"How did you know? Did you recognize my voice?"

"It wasn't that, it's just a gift I have," he said. He gently took her arm and escorted her out to the street.

Thank heaven _he_ was nowhere to be seen when she found Cecie waiting for her on the sidewalk.

Late that afternoon as evening came on, Phila went to the lower level to check on how the repairs on the cruiser were coming along.

"The parts just came in this morning; we'll start work first thing tomorrow morning," the auburn-haired mechanic they had met the first night told her.

"Can't you start work on it tonight?" she asked.

"It's getting late, I've got a few other repair jobs that have to be finished by tonight, before I punch out and go home."

She checked her credit book. "If I paid you twice what it will cost, would you do it tonight?"

He should his head. "I would, but not for the money. I can tell by the look on your face you can't wait to get out of this town. But I gotta run home and cook supper for my mother who isn't well, plus I got my cousin Mat coming in to visit her and I."

"I'm sorry to hear she isn't well. I'll pray an extra rosary for her." She bit her tongue, but he looked at her with gratitude.

"She'd appreciate that; I'll tell her."

"Are you Catholic?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. He reached into the front of his gray jumpsuit and drew out a large, somewhat gaudy enameled Miraculous Medal on a heavy chain.

"Then what are you doing in a place like this?"

He wagged his head. "Living, praying, fixing cars and the occasional Mecha that needs a weld job."

"I mean why don't you go live somewhere less…immoral."

"Well, I'm just trying to be one of the handful of just men that could save Sodom come the judgment day."

She pondered this as she headed home. She must have still been pondering it as she stepped off the escalator. Her preoccupation led her to take a wrong turn and she ended up on an unfamiliar boulevard leading to an unfamiliar plaza. She tried to retrace her steps, but she only went deeper and deeper into the jungle of neon and gyrating figures visible in the windows of the clubs. She cut along an alleyway, hoping it was a short cut.

"Hey, where you think you're goin' dressed like that?" a husky voice called after her.

"You tryin' to hide?" another rough voice cried.

"What's yah name, chicky?"

She looked over her shoulder. A group of broad-shouldered young men strode towards her. In the shadows, she could see that some of them wore artfully ripped shirts over their tight pants. One or two were shirtless. She turned away and walked faster.

"Hey, no one walks away from us like that!" one called.

"Especially without telling us their name."

"Or telling us what they're hidin' under them loose rags."

Just as she got to the end of the alleyway, one of the bravos shoved ahead of the rest and got in front of her, planting himself there. The others closed in from the rear. The one who'd got ahead grabbed her by the front of her jacket. She looked about for any police or security guards.

"Please let me go!" she insisted. The passersby she saw were too drugged with their own pleasures or concerns to notice. A few paused to watch what happened, but no one came forward to intervene.

"Not before you show us what's under that sack yah got on!" the largest ruffian sneered, reaching for the hem of her skirt.

She was about to scream for help when someone stepped out of the shadows.

"Come, can none of you see the young lady has no desire for your brand of attention?" said a gentle voice with a gracious British accent. "Virgins prefer gentlemen."

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know—yer on the wrong block!" said the tough holding her, his grip tightening. The other hustlers stepped aside, admitting into their midst a slender, jaunty figure.

"I had a call that brought me into your territory. It seems there are others in this part of town who prefer their men gentle," the stranger said. Any one of the toughs that surrounded her easily out-bulked him by at least half his size, but they moved away from him, their movements almost too precise. _Mecha_ , she realized.

"Get off our turf, pretty-boy, and we'll let her go," the big one snarled.

"Let her go and I will leave your turf," the stranger replied.

"You programmed to steal other men's women, Joe?" the big one grumbled, but he released his grip on Phila's jacket so suddenly, she stumbled and fell to the ground.

"No more than you are," Joe replied, calmly. Phila felt someone take one of her hands in his; with his other hand supporting her back, he helped her up. She looked around. As suddenly and silently as they came, the rowdies had gone and she stood alone with the gentle stranger. He led her out into the light.

She immediately recognized him as the stranger who had followed them that first night.

"Oh, it's you," she said, shaking her arm free of his. "You must be Cecie's friend the infamous Joe."

"They call me that for short. It's Gigolo Joe, at your service." He bowed to her decorously.

Don't look him in the eye, she warned herself. "Could you just guide me back to the Hotel Graceley?" she said.

"I couldn't just guide you back to the Graceley, but I could escort you there," he replied.

"Whatever," she muttered. He tried to take her arm as they walked, but she pulled it away from him

"Are you uncomfortable with the likes of me, besides the crude types?"

"Of course I am. Wait, how did you know I'm a virgin?"

"I knew that because no woman who has known man looks at men the way you do."

"How do I look at them?"

"Before you look away from them so coldly, your eyes betray curiosity."

 _Good grief, my eyes don't even look modest when I cast them down_ , she thought.

"Look, don't try to talk to me, I'm not interested in whatever you think you can do for me."

"As you wish, but if you cannot lift your eyes from the ground, you would do well to take my arm or risk our being separated in the crowds."

She decided she could do less damage to her soul by this gesture than by looking up. She let him take her arm as he led the way.

But just touching his arm made her wish she hadn't crossed paths with…him. She probably could have got away form those rowdies somehow…or could she?

"I understand from Cecie Martin that you are a dear friend of hers?" he ventured.

"Yes," she replied perfunctorily. "And I said no talking." If her father could see her now, walking the streets of this city of sin with one of _those_ Mechas.

"I gather you haven't been in Rouge for very long," he said after a few blocks. They had arrived at Main Plaza and she almost separated from him then and there to find her way back alone, but she decided otherwise, in case those rowdies had decided to follow her.

"We've been here longer than we care to, thank you. We had been on our way to St. Louis."

"Ah, may I ask what brings you there?"

"My cousin and I are going to visit a convent to discern our vocation."

He made no immediate reply, so she guessed it had gone over his mechanical brain or whatever he had under his scalp.

"So, how long have you known Cecie?" he asked.

"Since childhood. We grew up on the same street in the same town. We even went through college together."

"Then you are old friends. That is interesting."

"What makes you say that?" _How would you know?_

"Because your personalities differ so greatly. Cecie possesses a certain warmth about her nature, which you, I truly regret to say, could do well to emulate."

She darted a glance at her escort. "And I suppose you'd be more than happy to help me warm up?"

There was a seductive smile to his voice as he replied, "Only if you desire it."

"Which I don't; I just told you I'm on my way to a convent." For some reason she thought of the young mechanic at the service station; what was his name? Did she even let herself find out?

At long last, they arrived at the Graceley. She shook herself free of his arm and quick-walked to the door with a perfunctory "Thank you."

Joe stood for a moment where she had left him. His processors worked over the girl's reaction, trying to find where he went wrong. He'd only observed that she needed to be more polite, to show more warmth. No longer needed, he went looking for someone who would react more satisfactorily.

Phila seemed relieved to be back in the suite, but Cecie noticed something else about her friend.

"How are the repairs coming?" Cecie asked over the top of her datascriber; Bernie sat curled up on the couch, reading a paper copy of an ancient novel by a pre-warming writer.

"They got the parts in, but they haven't started the work yet," Phila replied, rummaging in the tiny fridge for the orange juice.

"Something happened out there, didn't it?" Cecie observed.

Phila almost threw the plastic pitcher into the sink. "What is it with this screwy town? Is everybody a mind reader?" she screamed. Bernie glanced up.

"Something did happen," Cecie said, saving her work.

"I ran into your wretched friend the Mecha, and he started making these impertinent observations about how I must be a virgin because of the way I look at him."

"He is programmed to pick up nuances of human behavior so he can adjust his approach and response to each person and their personality. I suppose I'm like that, too, since I'm a writer; I do the same thing so I can have raw material for new stories.

"So that's why you two make such good friends," Bernie noted in a low voice. Only Cecie noted this remark.

"What happened out there?" Cecie asked.

"I was walking back her and I took a wrong turn coming through the upper level. I ended up in some rough section. A bunch of tough guys—I guess they were guys—came up to me and started pushing me around. Your friend came along and extricated me. I even let it show me the way back here."

"See, he's not what you think."

"He's a machine."

"He's a thinking machine with a few crude proto-emotions."

"Especially the crude part."

"He protected you from embarrassment, if not some injury. The least you could do is give him a little respect where respect is due."

"He's programmed to do these sort of things to get around you and separate you from your morals."

"You don't get it. He has a highly complex brain simulacrum. He's designed to monitor behavior and response so he doesn't do anything out of line given the circumstances. He knows I don't want anything more than a casual friendship, so his overrides kick in and keep his behavior within the parameters defined by my profile, as he knows it. He won't do anything he shouldn't unless I let him. Those thugs that accosted you out there don't have such complicated overrides. Consider yourself blessed that he came along at the right time."

"You see to know an awful lot about how these things work."

Cecie shrugged. "I know because I've lived among these beings for so long."

Phila stared at her. "I think you're beginning to get like them."

Cecie laughed. "That's highly unlikely."

After supper, Cecie went out "for a breath of fresh air."

She didn't despise Phila and Bernie, but their views suffered from tunnel vision. Catholic meant universal, both in the uppercase and the lowercase, and while they were fair enough (uppercase) Catholics, if you could overlook the rigidity, they were often not the best (lowercase) catholics, not like what she tried to be. She wished they could be a little more openhearted, the way she'd learned to be. She'd gone through her own rigid period in her teens, which she at times gently blamed Phila and Bernie's father for. Thank heaven she'd outgrown the rigidity with her passions civilized yet intact.

She let herself get swept along by the crowd on Main Plaza, until she came up before the chapel. She went in and sat down on the floor in front of the sanctuary to offer a few words of supplication for her friends.

They shouldn't have to fall flat, no one should have to go through that, but if they could just loosen up the corsets that have been put on their spirits, they'd be able to know life as it is, yes, a moral battle, but the lines aren't always drawn into white-hat/black-hat, that sometimes the worst sinners have insights and objectivities into things that the self-proclaimed saints just refuse to learn or acknowledge, especially that they too are frail and can tumble, sometimes the worst moral pitfalls are right in your own soul…it's only me saying it, Lord, You know better…Can't they see that they are no better and no worse than half the women who come to Rouge every day, that they too have it in them to go all the way, so do I, but for Your grace, I'd have gone horizontal with Joe a very long time ago and wrecked a perfectly good friendship…Don't they know if you block out the capacity to know pain you block out the capacity to know pleasure, or do they know and thus have they chosen to drug themselves on being in pain through fear all the time, so they won't know pleasure, which is it?…Don't give them what they need when they think they need it, help them feel something besides the cold chills every time they see something male-shaped for a change and let 'em know it's just as normal as pain, if not moreso.

She got up, feeling purged, genuflected and went out.

Sure enough, Joe stood in his usual place, posed with decorous sensuousness where the light could catch on his face and figure.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" Cecie said.

"I'm afraid your friend Philomena needs a few lessons in manners," he said.

"Tell me about it. She lit into me after she got home."

"In that case, at least misery provides companionship for us both. I have rendered protection to each of them, and each has rebuffed my attentions."

"They won't be around to torment you much longer: their cruiser should be fixed after tomorrow."

"Then we have but one day to help them cut loose the cords that bind their spirits."

"I'm afraid so. I'll think of some way to get them out."

"The elder, taller one, Philomena, is utterly immune to whatever I offer, but I believe the younger, prettier one, Bernadette, who dropped into my arms, may be easier to unbind."

"You're right on that one: I've seen Bernie peeking around, looking for you when Phila isn't looking."

"So she is the one then! Those ties that bind her are but silken threads, not iron chains, no, not yet. May your God or whatever orders the universe permit me to be the one to unbind the chains of her virginity, so that she will cry out to the stars, 'Oh joy! Oh bliss! Oh freedom!'" He danced with something like gleeful anticipation.

"Uh, Joe, that's not the point here. The point is trying to loosen her up, not mess her up."

He turned back to her, eyes still snapping with anticipation. "Ah, yes! Better still: to tantalize her, to give her a taste of what ecstasy love can provide, but only the slightest whiff of that richest perfume. Can't let her breathe too deeply too soon, or she may suffocate from surfeit."

"Exactly."

"How fortunate for them that their cruiser broke down here and not," he gestured toward the concealed horizon, "Out there in the wasteland."

"In more ways than one. I'll keep you posted if something should come up."

"I shall be counting the seconds till the moment I may unbind your young friend."

To be continued…


	5. Runnin' Loose on the Streets of Rouge City chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Friday**

**Friday**

After Mass Friday morning, as usual, Phila kept a hammerlock on Bernie's arm as they hurried out of the chapel. But Phila couldn't keep the smaller girl from glancing around under her lashes, looking for and finding a swarthy figure in black awaiting them near the entrance. Cecie saw this and dropped behind to signal to him, Not now!

Later, early that afternoon, Phila went down to check on the cruiser and buy a few supplies for the road.

She found the auburn-haired mechanic working on the cruiser when she came into the garage.

"Oh, Miss Connelly, hello," he said, looking around the end of an axel. "You're early."

"Yes, I'm afraid I've been too brusque with you all week, so I thought I'd apologize. But first, I have to admit I've been so icy to you I don't even know your name."

"It's Kip, Kip Langier. I'd shake you hand but," he held them out, grease-covered, for her inspection. She chuckled.

"In that case, Kip, I'm sorry I've been so unkind."

"Hey, no hard feelings; I should be used to it by now. I've much nastier guff said to me since I started working here."

"So when should you have this finished?"

"Probably by tonight. You can get outta here then."

"I might as well wait till the morning rather than risk driving in the dark."

"Oh, good, I mean, well, I know I'm just a mechanic, but I was wondering if you wouldn't mind hangin' out with me tonight. My cousin Mat is visiting me, so I'm trying to keep him out of trouble."

"Otherwise known as the upper level."

He grinned sourly. "You got it."

"Well, could I have a reference or two first?"

"Okay, well, do you know Cecie Martin? She goes to Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart."

"I've known her all my life; we've been staying with her."

"She's a good person and good writer. I've known her since she first came here three years ago; ask her if she'd want to come along, the more the merrier."

"Sure." Safety in numbers.

"So, you lived in Massachusetts all your life?"

"Can I ask a question first? Does everybody in this town dig out the most information on a person that they can?"

"Sorry I sprang that on you like that. Information is the second means to power in this town. And when you've lived around Mechas as long as I have, you pick up a few of their quirks. The way I asked that question is something they might do."

"I've noticed that. Well, I've lived in Massachusetts all my life except when I was in college in Steubenville. Have you always lived here?"

"All my life. I tried to move away, but I just kept coming back."

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Shoot."

"Are you a virgin?"

"Well, I'm a virgin in the sense that I've never slept with anyone, organic or mechanic, but you can hardly have virgin eyes in a town like this, or a virgin mind, but I do try to control that."

"Oh, I see. So how's your mother doing?"

"A little better since Mat came to stay with us; she's got someone to keep her company during the day."

"How sick is she?"

"Well, she has every symptom of old age below the eyebrows, but above she's still as sharp as a pin. Now, can I ask you a personal question?"

"Go ahead."

"What brought you to Rouge City, besides your brakes failing?"

"My cousin Bernadette and I are on our way to the Dominican convent in St. Louis to discern our vocation."

He grinned mischievously around the end of the axel. "And after five days you're wrestling with second thoughts."

"I'm not, but I think Bernadette has a crush on some Mecha prostitute."

"Well, as long as she doesn't do anything, I wouldn't get too upset. I went through the same funny period; part of the growing process."

"But you're a man."

He eyed her curiously. "And women don't have hormones?"

"I didn't mean that."

"Okay, how old is she?"

"She's just twenty-one."

"She's still growing. Has she ever fallen in love before?"

"Not to my knowledge. So, where should we meet you tonight?"

"I was taking Mat to the Garden Club; it's a fairly tame place. Might be a little foolin' around stuff, but they're discreet about it."

"At least they are, but they shouldn't be doing it in the first place."

"I'm with you on that one, but what can you do about other people's behavior? So, shall we meet you there around, say 18.30?"

"Sure. In that case, I'd better get going. I have to get a few things for the next leg of the trip."

"Well, in that case, God bless you till I see you again."

"In hope you haven't got anything cooking," Phila said an hour later, when Cecie let her into the suite.

"No, I don't yet. Why?"

"Kip Langier, the mechanic who's fixing the cruiser, invited us to dinner."

"Cool. Kip's a good boy, not a bad-looker either. He helps out around the chapel whenever he can." She darted a teasing look like a double take. "Are you thinking maybe of staying?"

"Certainly not! How's Bernie?"

"A little mopey from being cooped up, she's washing her hair just now. So where are we having dinner?"

"I think he called it the Garden."

"Also known as the Paradise Garden; not a bad place, so long as you get a table, not a booth."

What new hazard was this? "Why?"

Cecie tried to keep a straight face. "I went there once with some friends and we ended up in a booth. There are these big planters along the walls, full of some sort of Mecha plants."

What next? "Mecha plants?"

"They're as weird as they sound. They look like real plants, but they aren't and they wired them to smell like plants and rustle like plants in a breeze, so the management doesn't have to rig a fake breeze through the place which would knock over everybody's drinks."

"That must be nice."

"Yeah, to look at, but it's not so nice if you're sitting under a big leaf going flap, flap, flap."

"Well, then it might be like someone was fanning you with it."

"And they're hitting you on the head with it?"

"I guess that wouldn't be much fun."

"It's one of those things that isn't when it's happening, but telling everyone about it later is funny."

"So you want to come along?"

"Sure—in the hopes we get a table, not a booth."

At 18.00, they headed out into the pulsing night.

As they passed by Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart, Cecie glanced toward Joe's usual post. He wasn't there, but that was to be expected. Friday nights brought him a lot of business. She'd have to think of something.

After they passed through the front gates and the foyer of the Paradise Garden club, they passed through its long outer courtyard that enclosed the club proper. Under a perpetual halcyon "sky" simulated trees and ferns shaded a plastic gravel path that lead to groves and alcoves and hedged nooks of all sorts set aside for discreet encounters of various kinds.

Fortunately for Cecie, they got a table, not a booth. Kip's cousin Mat turned out to be close to what Cecie expected, a short, stocky-built but skinny twerp with dishwater blond hair and bad skin. All through the meal he kept his eyes to himself as far as the three girls at the table were concerned, but he kept darting furtive glances at the Mecha waitresses that passed by their table.

Kip kept the conversation lively with stories about his family and their various misadventures, which encouraged Phila to talk a little bit about her family.

"So how long you girls been here in the city?" Mat ventured, trying to get into the chatter.

"I've lived here about three years, since I finished college," Cecie said.

"Bernie and I have been here five days too many," Phila said, explaining the incident that brought them here and where they were going.

"Interesting detour yah got, eh?" Mat said, grinning. Phila regarded him with baleful eyes; his grin faded.

"It's been a learning experience," Bernie said.

"But I can't imagine why any decent person would want to live here; I mean, it attracts all the worst elements," Phila said. "All these people dissipating their energies on sinful horrors."

"Rouge doesn't just attract the sinners, it attracts the worse than sinners: the self-righteous," Kip said. "You have to admit, the self-righteous types are almost comical compared to the sinners, who are really more to be pitied than anything else."

"Tell us about 'em," Mat urged.

"Well, one night this guy who belonged to a weird Bible cult broke into a convenience store nest to where I live and tried to steal all the porno VR discs behind the counter. The locks went on smart and he got trapped inside. The security cameras caught it all. He was running around like a rat, dropping discs all over the floor, trying to find a way out. He was still there when the manager came to open up next morning. And then when he was arraigned, he had the nerve to claim he was not guilty, that God had told him to break into the convenience store."

"Yeah, an' didn't God Himself invent the commandment 'Thou shalt not steal'? That applies to anything, right?" Mat said.

"I could tell you one I actually saw happen, but I'll keep it short since it's rather violent," Cecie said, discreetly reaching for the cellphone in its leg sheath strapped to her thigh, under her skirt. "This happened the first year I lived here. A madwoman, probably involved with the same cult group, went on a rampage armed with a chainsaw in the street; she started mowing down Mechas as if they were grass, saying they were the abomination of desolation standing in the temple of God's universe. A friend of mine had a near-miss that day; fortunately for him, his makers had the presence of mind to give him good self-preservation circuits."

Lucky for me he survived, Bernie thought.

The live band that had been playing light music through the dinner hour stuck up an old Carlos Gardel tango. Several couples had taken to the floor.

Kip looked at Phila. He stood up and approached her. "I know we barely know each other, but could I dance with you?"

"Well, I never really danced before," she demurred.

"I'll show you how."

"Okay." She rose and let Kip lead her to the floor.

Cecie looked at Mat. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What, that Phila just might not need to go to that convent to decide her vocation?" he asked, grinning.

"Something like that," Cecie replied. Under the tabletop, she thumbed the speed dial and pressed a number.

"Hey, either of you gals wanna burn the floor with me?" asked Mat.

"Not me," Cecie replied quickly as the line picked up. "The right dancing partner for Cecie Martin is out there, but we'll see if he shows up in the Paradise Garden Club." She said her name and location a little louder and more distinct than the rest.

"You, Bernie?" he asked, getting up.

"I guess you can teach me," Bernie said, getting up and letting Mat take her hand.

Cecie hoped her voice had picked up.

High above them, across town in a dark, nameless room, Joe's pager, now slung from the back of a chair, trilled. His present occupation with a customer overrode his reaction.

But once they had parted, he attended to the summons. Cecie Martin, Paradise Garden Club, the display read. It was not typical of her to send for him at night, especially after he had not heard anything from her all day. But he could only respond to the call.

He headed for the main escalator to the lower level. Usually he had little business down there, but he knew its paths. Mustn't keep the ladies waiting…

A few minutes later, the maitre d' of the Paradise Garden came to the table where Cecie sat watching the floor full of dancers.

"Ms. Martin, there is a man up front who wishes to speak to you. He says his name is Joe; I think he's Mecha."

"Thank you, I'll be right there," she said, getting up and going to the front.

Joe stood waiting for her at the front desk, gazing on the girl cashier who kept pretending not to glance at him.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know?" Cecie said

He looked up at her. "I'd like to know how goes the master plan? If we are to cut the ties that bind Bernadette, I am the scissors."

"I've got it worked out, but the success depends on Bernadette's reaction. Right now she's dancing with someone she wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. So I'm going back in there to sit down. You're to wait here for thirty seconds and then come in after me."

"What dance are they playing?"

"A tango."

His eyes glowed. "My specialty. Am I to dance with her or with you?"

"With me. The idea is to get her jealous so she'll leave, but you're to go after her, find her and console her."

"I shall do my utmost to fulfill that."

"Just don't do anything to her I wouldn't let you do to me."

"That I shall not."

"You got it?"

"Yes. Thus, instead of some Orga woman using me to get to an Orga man, I will be using you to get to Bernadette."

"That's one way to look at it." She glanced at her watch. "Thirty seconds," she reminded him.

"I shall be counting them off."

Cecie walked back to the table and sat down as if nothing had transpired.

Bernie's feet were killing her after the number of times Mat stepped on them: he seemed to be wearing lead boots over cement socks. She wondered if the mysterious Joe knew how to dance.

Just as she thought this, a slim, graceful figure in black approached the table where Cecie sat jotting something on her palmtop scriber. At the same instant, Mat swung Bernie away so that she lost sight of them, but she got a glimpse, even at that small distance, of those perfect eyes. The crowd of dancers blocked her view

Then it parted and she saw something that nearly made her stop in her tracks, even with Mat leading.

"Looks like Cecie found her dancing partner," Mat said with a wicked chuckle.

Cecie was dancing with Joe. A tango no less, her body so close to his you couldn't slide a tenth NB between them. They looked a little incongruous: she in her plain cut gray button-down over her ankle-length black skirt, he the epitome of elegance in his wide-skirted black tailcoat. But they moved as one; she seemed to swoon in his arms as he leaned over her, his gaze melded to hers, all but hypnotizing her.

Bernie could no longer bear to watch. She let go of Mat's hands and stumbled from the floor.

"I think that's your cue," Cecie said to Joe, peeling herself from him.

"In which direction did she leave?" he asked, scanning the room.

"Toward the door, let's hope she got confused and ended up in the courtyard."

"Wish me luck: the cord is about to be cut." He kissed her on the cheek and left, following in Bernie's footsteps.

Cecie returned to the table and sank onto her chair, her legs trembling under her; a hot flush spread up her face and down her chest.

Bernie meant to go to the ladies' room, but she got confused and ended up in the courtyard. She sank onto a loveseat under a trellis of wisteria, white lilies around the base. You're acting stupid, reason told her. You're lovesick over something little better than a washing machine.

Besides, you may be in danger of sinning just by showing any interest in it, just by noticing it...him, just by looking at…him.

She sat on an old fashioned loveseat, the sort with two separated seats artfully constructed so that the two sitters could turn and face each other. She sat with her head hung, eyes closed, mind racing, ears deaf to the world in case she heard anything she shouldn't

She raised her eyes; a man and a woman passed by her, their arms about each other's waist. She couldn't tell if one of them was artificial, like the plants around her. Something in her, a new inner self she had hardly noticed until now, longed to be like this, to be paired off, yet another voice banged around in her head, telling her it must be otherwise. She dropped her head.

Movement rustled the air around her, but not the movement of the plants, bringing with it a white noise barely above the level of hearing. The love seat creaked.

"Bernadette?"

She opened her eyes. His graceful hand lay on the seatback, close to her arm. She lifted her eyes, her gaze traveling up his arm to his face.

His face, so perfectly symmetrical, flawlessly molded, the face of a demi-god if she allowed such beings into imagination.

And those eyes: as if to spite the mild blankness that seemed to characterize Mecha eyes, his eyes held an inner warmth, a gentle fire she had never seen anywhere. Did real men's eyes hold this light? Was that really lust in them, or was it something else? If he was really only a machine, he didn't really desire her. What went on above those eyes?

"What do you want?" she asked, petulant.

"Perhaps I should be asking you that question: what do you want, Bernadette?"

"What could I want?"

He leaned closer to her, his gaze on her hands. "I think you want freedom. I think you want another being to help you cut loose the things that bind you."

"Help me do what?"

"Help you unfasten the ties that bind your spirit."

Her mind objected. Of course she was free! She needed no release, especially not at the hands of something like him.

But curiosity overrode the voice in her head. She realized it was her father's voice.

She wanted to rush away, but she wished to remain seated, wanting only to look into the beautiful face before her.

"I'm not bound by anything," she objected.

"It seems there is at least something binding your tongue. You didn't thank me properly the other day after you fell."

"I was frightened. I was startled. I'm sorry…thanks, I mean, thank you." Her hand crept toward his; she pulled it back.

"You're welcome." A pause. "But that cord, that fear still binds more than your tongue."

"What could it bind?"

"Your mind, your heart. Why else did you flee from me? Why else are you afraid to look straight at me or at any other man?"

"I don't know; it's what my father told me I had to do. I mean, he told me I could marry if that's what I'm called to do."

"But if you are to marry you must meet and fall in love with a man. And yet you are afraid to even look at or speak to something like me; how then can you relate to a real man?"

She realized at once this thing spoke the truth. All her life long, her foster father had, for whatever reason, kept her bound with fear. He was a good man who meant well, who meant only to spare her from suffering.

She felt a hand on her wrist. She looked down and saw his hand on her wrist, smoothing the cuff of her sleeve. He lifted his hand and stroked her face. Her flesh turned to fire under that touch. She trembled.

"You are beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"No. I mean, no, I'm not beautiful, n-not like Cecie."

"No, you are not beautiful like Cecie; you are beautiful like Bernadette." His hand lowered to her shoulder. He paused. "You feel tense. I sense tension in your flesh."

"I'm afraid."

"Of me? Or of yourself?"

"I don't know. I don't know."

"If you could let go of this tension, your spirit could go free. Here, if you wish, I can help you."

"Just be careful."

He ran both his hands over her shoulders, his fingers pressing into the broadcloth and the flesh beneath. He slid his hands down her back, along her spine, then up to the nape of her neck, under her hair. The pressure released, increased, released, increased, in easy waves as his fingertips gently kneaded her flesh. Her spine softened. She relaxed her neck into his hands.

His gaze ran down her form. "Why do you dress so? Are you afraid to let men know you are beautiful?"

"No, I just…I don't know." She realized the sack-like clothes she wore were not of her own choosing, but part of the fear her father had instilled in her.

His hands ran down her sides, smoothing the fold of her dress against her flanks.

"I'm sorry, I'm not…not…"

"You need not apologize, not to me, nor to anyone else. You are beautiful in your own way because you are a woman. Whoever made you made you to be beautiful." He released her waist. The fire in her face started to fill her whole body.

"No one has ever spoken to me like this."

"You have never fallen in love?"

"Not till now, not till now."

He held her face in his hands. It was her turn to lean in closer to him. His face moved in, his eyes on hers. She shut her eyes lest they melt under that brilliance in his eyes that shone into hers. She opened them just a peek to find his eyes had eclipsed her world with green gold, like the light shining on the leaves around them.

She felt his lips on her cheek, so soft. His eyes shifted angle; he kissed her other cheek. She wanted to return the gesture somehow, to show she was no longer afraid, that the cord was breaking under his gentle touch.

Kip led Phila back to the table, where Cecie sat across from Mat, not facing him.

"He's that good, eh?" Mat was saying.

"Where's Bernie?" Phila demanded.

"That's what I'd like to know," Mat said.

"Wait, who's the 'he' you just mentioned, Mat?" Phila asked.

"Joe came through a little while ago and I was dancing with him," Cecie replied. She pointed to the tall glass a quarter full of ice water that stood before her on the table, along with a pitcher. "That's why I'm drinking this; next best thing to a cold shower."

"I got a funny feelin' this Joe might know where Bernie is; I saw him duck out after her."

"Which way did she go?" Phila asked.

"She headed up front."

"Cecie, you go check the ladies' room; I'm going to check that garden," Phila said. She strode up front; Cecie followed her.

Joe's eyes moved in again; Bernie trembled, but not with fright, only ready for the next gesture.

And then a voice spoke.

"What are you doing with my cousin?"

Joe looked away toward the voice and stood up, but he put his hand on Bernie's arm, as if to let her know he could deal with this intruder.

It was Phila's voice. Bernie did not know whether to look up or to keep her head bent.

"I am merely freeing her spirit of its fears; any man who knew of her sorrows would think himself obligated to assist her as best he could and as he saw fit."

"Get your hands off her." He removed his hand from Bernie's arm. Bernie reached out and clasped his wrist. "You take your hand off him too, Bernadette. Haven't you any shame?"

She found the courage to look Phila in the eye. "Maybe it beats being scared of everything that walks by that has a deep voice and…well, whatever else it takes to make a man," Bernie retorted.

"You've let this mockery corrupt you!" Phila cried. Then she added to Joe, "You leave her alone!"

"Philomena, I have meant harm to neither Bernie nor—"

"Shut up!" Phila threw a punch at his left cheekbone or whatever it was he had under there. She felt something give under there as he stepped back from the punch. His hand went to his face, his eyes gone blank.

Cecie rushed up. "What are you doing?" Bernie put her hand on Joe's shoulder, but he did not react. Phila, one fist doubled, stood staring up at the Mecha. "Are you all right?"

"I shall be…all right," Joe replied, his voice slightly slurred. Cecie sensed rather than felt some silent pulse emanating from him, probably a damage alert going off, alerting his owner that something was wrong. She wanted to linger with him, but she had to get Phila and Bernie home.

To be continued…


	6. Last Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Last Morning**

**Last Morning**

Phila and Bernie got up early so Bernie could get to confession, an absolute must in Phila's eyes, and Bernie's for that matter.

After Mass, they went straight back to the Graceley to finish packing. Cecie lagged behind for an instant; she hadn't seen Joe anywhere.

She brought them down to the lower deck to see them safely off. Kip had the cruiser waiting for them in front of the garage.

"I'm sorry about the way things fell out last night; I shouldn't have asked you out," he started to say.

"It wasn't your fault, you did your best. It's all the fault of this -ing city." Phila's face immediately went bright red.

"Heavy on the bleeping," Cecie admitted.

His broad innocent face was utterly sincere. "I wouldn't blame you if you went away and decided to stay in the convent right after you got there. This world is just too corrupt for people like you."

"Kip, it's not you. I like you; I liked dancing with you. I think you're a fine young man and, at the risk of sounding trite, a great guy. Could I have your email address?"

"Sure," he said, reaching inside his jumpsuit and taking out a thin metal card case. "Can I have yours, or would you rather that I wait until you decide to send?"

"No, you can have mine." She pulled a scrap of paper from her purse.

The next day, Cecie got a bill in her mail for the small weld job that had to be done on Joe's facial infrastructure. That explains his absence, she thought.

Winter came bringing intermittent squalls of rain and snow, then spring returned. She got a message from Phila.

"She's coming back to Rouge City this summer," she told Joe, who sat at her feet, knees drawn up with his crossed wrists resting on them.

"So her sojourn was not so unpleasant as she fancied," he mused, smiling astutely.

"Yes, Kip the mechanic asked her to marry him."

"And she accepted his proposal?"

"Surprisingly, she did."

"She will do well with him and by him; he has gentle hands." Except for a small blemish visible only in certain lights when he tilted back his head to his right, there was no signs of any damage. It didn't even mar his looks: rather, it made it harder to discern him from an Orga. "But what of little Bernadette?"

"She's getting married also, to the convent gardener's grandson."

"Indeed!"

Cecie turned the datascriber around. "There's a picture of him." Joe leaned over to look.

The gardener's grandson was a dark young wag with eyes of an unusually clear shade of green. Joe looked up.

"He somewhat resembles someone we both know," he said.

They both laughed.

 **Afterword:**

Hold the flames, people; I meant this to be a romantic comedy somewhat in the manner of Shakespeare. I almost drafted it as a screenplay, especially because some details were more visually oriented (the bit with Cecie and the cellphone in the restaurant, and some of the anecdotes could be filmed as montages), but decided otherwise. Time was one of my main considerations: this story was, for me at least, too good to keep from you for too long.

Literary Easter Eggs:

"Fishcious Cycle"—a slightly shameless thievery from William Gibson's _All Tomorrow's Parties_.

"the usual 'in-out, in-out'"—I just couldn't resist swiping this bit of "nadsat" slang (the word refers to sex or copulation, if you haven't figured it out) from Anthony Burgess's _A Clockwork Orange_. This also references an e-mail discussion with a friend of mine who compared the Rouge City sequence with the milk bar in Stanley Kubrick's film version of the Burgess novel; had Kubrick lived to shoot "A.I.", they might have been more similar (and therefore R-rated!). It's also been suggested that Kubrick's conception of Joe might have been closer in personality to Alex, the sociopath "hero" of Kubrick's earlier effort. Ouch. Thanks for reprogramming the Mecha, Steve!

"making up stories from the faces while he keeps the customers satisfied…"—I referenced two songs by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, whom I was listening to a _lot_ while I was plotting/writing this. Compare "America", where the two wanderers on the bus are "playing games with the faces", and also "Keep the Customers Satisfied", which someone once told me is about a drug-dealer, but I haven't seen any indication that it could be. It could just as easily be about a male 'ho.

"can't allow scruples in the confessional…"—I based this on an incident from the life of St. Philip Neri, who had the ability to read people's souls in the confessional. The scrupulous sister of his friend St. Charles Borromeo once tried to confess twice in the same day, so St. Philip had to put her out saying he wouldn't allow scruples in the confessional. The priest also bears some resemblance to a seminarian friend of mine.

Joe's speech starting with "May your God…"—I borrowed a paraphrased translation of the last stanza from the baritone solo "Circa Mea Pectora" from Carl Orff's _Carmina Burana_ , then cross-bred it with part of Joe's "Blue Fairy" speech from the film. I do try to avoid swiping from the movie, but sometimes it's the only way to make his lines authentic.

Mecha plants—yes, this is a rip on those dancing Christmas trees/cactuses/palm trees that were the novelty gag gift of choice a few years back!

Kip's story about the man in the convenience store—this is based on something that actually happened in Florida this winter; I just changed the details to transfer it to Rouge City. And the mad woman with the chainsaw might be Carrie Nation, the notorious anti-alcohol activist from the early 1900s, who used to attack saloons in the West, armed with a hatchet.


End file.
